Backdoor Man
by elanurel
Summary: Sam found the bar but Dean found the blonde.  Adult content. COMPLETE


**Backdoor Man  
**

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Sam found the bar but Dean found the blonde.

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**Disclaimer:** The Winchester boys aren't mine but I'd make Dean wear his boots all the time if they were. 

**Rating**: M (Language and sex)

**Pairings**: Dean/OFC (Het)

**Miscellaneous: **This is set in one of my existing 'verses but 'verse knowledge is not needed for the story. Seriously. I was asked to write something "hot and sexy" and this is what my brain came up with. It's my response to the _Zeppelin Rules! _challenge over at spn-het-love. I used the song "Whole Lotta Love" as my inspiration. I mean, it's one of Dean's theme songs. How could I _not _use it?

**Beta: ****embroiderama** is a candidate for sainthood. Enough said on that score. Everything in this story rocks because of her. The mistakes? Those are all me.

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It looked just like every college dive in every other college town, filled to the proverbial rafters with shaggy-haired emo kids shaking themselves to bad music and cheap beer. Sam found it like he found everything else, using some combination of freaky Geek Boy powers that interfaced with Internet search engines, but at least it wasn't Open Mike Night – a bunch of pimply-faced teenagers reading angst poetry wasn't high on the list of things he needed to work the hunt out of his system. 

Dean found the blonde all on his own, sitting off the dance floor as she nursed her drink. She was tapping her foot in time to the crappy ass music the DJ was playing, a glint of light reflecting off the buckles of her high-heeled shoes.

Everything was an equal opportunity fetish but there was something about her strappy heels and red-lacquered toenails hidden behind a translucent sheen that made Dean want to give Sam a high five, especially when the package came wrapped in a low-cut slink of a dress. He settled for slamming the rest of his tequila, giving the chick a once-over while his throat burned.

Sam just gave him an incredulous look when Dean slipped him ten bucks and told him not to wait up.

Long fingers dipped into her glass and pulled out an ice cube. She leisurely drew the cube across her lips as she watched him skirt the dance floor, tongue coming out to lick off drops while she coolly evaluated his approach. She popped the ice cube into her mouth when Dean slid into the chair across from hers, fingers circling the edge of her glass as she cocked her head and waited for him to make the first move.

"It's a little hot in here."

_That_ was a fucking understatement, between the humidity snaking in from outside and the college kids sweating to the oldies out on the dance floor – bodies crashing against each other to Ministry and Metallica instead of the crap that was playing when he and Sam staked their claim at the first open table.

Her mouth curved into a smile. She tipped the glass to her lips and tilted her head back, taking a slow sip before setting it back on the napkin in front of her. The tips of her fingers brushed against his wrist, a cold shock that sent a shiver up his arm. "A little," she said.

"_You _don't seem to have a problem with being _too_ hot."

A low chuckle escaped her throat. "Can you ever be _too_ hot?" she asked.

She didn't wait for an answer, plucking another ice cube out of her glass. She touched it lightly to the pulse beating at the base of her throat, sliding it down to the curve of her breasts – one drop of water sliding down underneath the neckline. Wisps of blonde hair feathered around her face as she leaned forward and touched the ice cube to his lips, one high-heeled foot sweeping against his calf. She slipped the ice cube into his mouth, leaving her finger behind just long enough for him to taste her as he swallowed it down.

"Not from where I'm sitting." Dean leaned an elbow on the table as she settled backwards into her seat, fingers tapping slowly on her napkin. She had finished her drink. "What are you having?" he asked, nodding towards her glass.

"A long slow comfortable screw against the wall."

Dean grinned. "You took the words right out of my mouth, sweetheart." She stretched her foot tip to heel, as his hand landed on her thigh, but didn't pull away. "Oh, you were talking about some drinks?"

"We could make it a double."

"A double?"

"Drinks, to start." Her eyes flickered up to the maze of catwalks above the dance floor, another smile spreading slowly across her face before she looked him in the eye. "But aren't the walls a little…exposed?" she added, leaning into his shoulder. Her breath was cool against the sheen of sweat on his neck. "People could _watch_."

"If you were worried about people watching, you shouldn't have worn that dress," he retorted, feeling the hair on her ear prickle. The dress was hot, skimming her thighs with some flippy skirt thing that Samantha could probably classify by name and blame on Jess, but Dean was just happy that it showed off curves in all the right places. He stroked her arm, pulling back just enough to see her cheeks flush. "Looks like it's up to me to cool you down," Dean added, flagging down the nearest waitress as she walked by.

It turned out that she was serious about the drink; it was some goddamn fruity _concoction_ made with sloe gin, Southern Comfort, vodka, some freaky ass Italian liqueur and orange juice. And the damn things had a kick to them, slamming into the back of his head as hard as the bass line pounding out of the speakers. After three of them, though, she was laughing at everything he said – her fingers scratching slowly on the back of his neck, flicking up into his hair every time he squeezed the hand on her hip.

Dean shifted in his chair when she twisted her face away from his, bringing his lips down to touch hers. Her fingers blocked his move and she shook her head coyly, eyes a glimmer in the lights rebounding off the dance floor. "That's a little personal," she whispered against his cheek, licking a stripe down from his ear to the end of his jaw line. "Don't you think?"

The only thing he was thinking about when she started tonguing the rhythm at the base of his neck was how long he was going to have to wait before he could pull up that dress and cool her down completely.

It took two more girly drinks to get Dean onto the dance floor.

He wasn't actually _dancing_; his leggy companion was doing all the work, gyrating her hips to some song that sounded suspiciously like AC/DC, if some reject garage band with serious speed problems was stupid enough to take on Angus Young. She mouthed the words as they wove their way across the dance floor, occasionally shimmying her ass up into his crotch. He was just there making sure she had an escort because her dress didn't leave much to the imagination – there were at least three assholes eyeing her as she trotted past, dragging Dean to some destination only she had in mind.

She pushed him against the wall the moment they stumbled into a back hallway, hands going to the waistband of his jeans. Her fingers were popping open buttons down his fly and working his boxers down past his hips before Dean could whip out a condom. He closed his eyes, feeling the warmth of her lips as she knelt in front of him.

"Your idea of personal is pretty fucking screwed," Dean hissed.

Her breath surrounded him with a moist heat as she picked up speed, digging her nails into his ass. Dean tangled his right hand into her hair, his head falling backwards with a groan as the suction increased. She wrapped a hand around him, the friction from lips and fingers pulling tremors across the slickness until his thighs started to shake and his eyes unfocused. Seconds before he exploded, she pulled away completely and sank back as far as she could onto her heels. The sluggish eddy of air swirling down the hall from the overworked swamp cooler was enough to make him throb when it brushed against wet skin.

When she smiled up at him, Dean realized his hand was still wrapped in her hair. He let go and grabbed one side of his boxers, pulling them back up.

"Hurry." It came out of her mouth sharp like a command, eyes going dark as she stood up. She reached around his waist and turned a doorknob Dean hadn't even realized was there. Voices were drifting at them and she pushed hard on the small of his back while he buttoned the top of his fly. "Get in," she hissed.

He should have felt like an idiot, traipsing up a flight of rickety metal stairs with his pants drooping open while some hot chick in a green dress shut the access door behind them but all that mattered was getting her up to the catwalk. She needed some serious schooling about the repercussions of leaving Dean Winchester hanging.

Literally.

It was his turn to push her against something as soon as she topped the stairs. Dean found an intersection where two pathways crossed right near one of the speaker columns, the bass vibrating through both of them as he backed her up against the railing. "It's goddamn hot up here," he said, watching her wrap her hands around the railing and brace her feet. Air from somewhere was pushing up her dress, making it billow out around her thighs just enough for him to see the end of a garter.

"Heat rises." Her voice was a purr, hungry eyes focused down on his crotch.

"Lucky for me," Dean answered. He snapped one of her garters; the spot where it slapped into her thigh started turning pink and he kissed it gently once he was on his knees, tracing his tongue across it.

By the time she lifted one leg over his shoulder, the sweat from underneath her knee getting soaked up in his t-shirt, her panties were an afterthought – pushed aside and tucked into his pocket. Her pulse sped up underneath his lips, hips rocking slowly until she started undulating in time to the bass line. She tasted like a long-forgotten memory, musky against his lips. Her long blonde hair brushed against her hands as she threw her head back with a moan, one heel digging into his shoulder blade.

She screamed, louder than the music pouring out of the speakers, and stopped bucking; the tremors slowly subsided as she went limp but her hands were still wrapped tight around the railing, knuckles white from the pressure of just holding on.

Dean must have changed her mind about the definition of personal because her mouth was suddenly plastered all over his, her taste swallowed up by her tongue brushing slowly against his – the musk intermingling with orange juice and sloe gin. "Turn around," he muttered against her lips when they pulled back for air. "Now," he added, her shoulders stiffening underneath his fingers.

He flipped her himself, hands hard on her hips, and pushed her as far up against the railing as he dared. Dean's first thrust lifted her up off her heels. He meant to go slow, ease his way inside with a teasing push and pull, but a song he knew as easy as breathing was suddenly pounding its way into their rhythm and Dean just let himself go. He was sliding deep, feeling her warmth as her hips rocked back up into his.

When Plant started wailing a descant over the animal noises coming out of both of them, she jerked her head forward. She cried out as blonde hair blew past him and onto the dance floor, revealing the sheen on her back as the heat fought back; Dean could feel the moisture underneath the hands locked tight around her hips. She shuddered, taking every inch; it was enough to make his thighs quiver on their own all over again, fighting the hot burn spreading through his belly.

But Dean didn't spill over with a hoarse cry against her back until she flipped her head up and red hair settled onto her shoulders.

It was the smell as much as anything, strawberries intermingled with sweat, and the way her entire body flushed underneath his touch. _Charlotte_ was on his fingers, his tongue.

"_Jesus_. That was fucking…"

It was more coherent than any man with a chick trembling around him as he bent her over a railing had a right to sound.

"It _was_ fucking," she returned lightly. Her hair was sticking in strands against her back. Charlie shivered when his lips traced a rivulet of sweat from her neck between her shoulder blades before hitching up her hips just enough for Dean to move. "I don't even see the wig," she added as her skirt fell back down around her knees.

"That's not the question I'd be asking," Dean said, pulling up his pants and finally buttoning them closed. He leaned against the railing, brushing her left arm with his right.

She was blushing, staring straight down into the dancing kids. The wig was toast, trampled underneath the feet of a spastic mob and who knew how many spilled bottles of beer. Charlie didn't turn her head, just gave a sigh. "That's easy," she said slowly, hands loosening on the railing. "I didn't want to wonder anymore what it was like not to be the girl in the granny sweater. So…" Her voice trailed off.

"Well, I'm a candidate for sainthood alright. Letting you play dress up because you're sick of your granny sweaters and then having sex with you." Dean grinned. He sure as hell wasn't an expert on the female psyche but he'd never say 'no' when Charlie asked him to do something that ended with sex, no matter how whacked it sounded. "But I was going for _'Where the hell is your underwear?_'actually. It fell out of my pocket."

"Oh, God," she managed. Dean never thought it was possible for Charlie to ever blush harder then she already was until she found another shade of bright red to call her own.

"Guess you're going commando back to the motel."

"I should hit you for that." Charlie's voice was even. "But you're the one who has to keep me upright and you're already tragically impaired. All it takes to make you dance are a couple of _girly_ drinks." She laughed suddenly, smiling at him. "But it's still hot as hell. Are you up for a shower?"

"I'm up for pretty much anything you can throw at me, Girl Genius." Dean didn't pull away when she tucked herself underneath his arm. "I'll even make the monumental sacrifice of screwing you while you're wearing nothing but your granny sweater, just so it doesn't feel left out." He chuckled. "By the way, you're keeping the shoes."

"I can barely walk in the shoes."

"You can barely walk. That has nothing to do with the shoes." Neither one of them moved. Goddamn Charlie was probably going to wait until closing time, just so no one could get a peek up her skirt. "And another thing, _Charlotte_…"

She shivered. "Yes, _Dean_?"

"I wouldn't say _no_ to a repeat performance. Just don't let Geek Boy pick out the bar because the music here blows."

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A/N: 

The title of this story is from the Led Zeppelin song "Whole Lotta Love." Obviously, I wrote this for the **Zeppelin Rules!** challenge over at spnhetlove. It was originally going to be my entry for the **Freefalling in 500 Words** challenge but I suck at short.

OK, this was supposed to be "hot and sexy," as requested. I did tone it down a bit from the version posted on my livejournal… If it needs to be toned down more, let me know and I'd be happy to work on those parts. (I'm not so great when it comes to judging ratings. I just write what the muses tell me to write…)

Those who've read "Strange Angels" will recognize the girl but the conceit of the story required her to remain nameless until the very end. One day, I may actually write a real "Dean finds a nameless girl in a bar" story. Today would not be that day. For those keeping score at home, it's set in one of those happy moments where you know the Winchesters are on the road but it has nothing to do with the overall plot so you can use it to write silly stories like this one...


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